His arms, under her back and knees, scooped her off the floor. Princess carry. Again. The same position he had carried Myra in. The same position that had preceded the priestess's destruction. Her body, light in his arms, was held against his chest. Her face, cum-streaked and tear-stained, was against his neck. Her legs, bare and trembling, dangled.
She protested. The sound, muffled by the panty that had been stuffed back into her mouth at some point during the undressing, was a whimper. A gurgle. The 'I-am-saying-words-but-no-one-can-hear-them' sound of a woman whose voice had been taken.
His body, against hers, was warm. Solid. The muscles, defined beneath the milk-white skin, were hard. Her breasts, in their black lace, pressed against his chest. The nipples, stiff and aching, scraped his skin through the fabric. His cock, semi-hard against her hip, was hot. The shaft, still wet, left a trail of moisture on her thigh.
